


(why) life goes on the way it does

by burgundians



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burgundians/pseuds/burgundians
Summary: “Hear that? We’re history, now.” He grumbles to Credence’s back. The morning sun is shining through the wide windows, glinting off the rebel silver hairs that have somehow appeared when he wasn’t looking.In the Spring of 1966, Percival Graves' peace and quiet is interrupted by a letter.





	(why) life goes on the way it does

 

 

> _How many loved your moments of glad grace,_
> 
> _And loved your beauty with love false or true,_
> 
> _But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_
> 
> _And loved the sorrows of your changing face;_
> 
> \- William Butler Yeats

 

A young student had sent him a letter asking him for an interview for his thesis, something or another about Seraphina’s Presidency.

“Hear that? We’re history, now.” He grumbles to Credence’s back. The morning sun is shining through the wide windows, glinting off the rebel silver hairs that have somehow appeared when he wasn’t looking.

Credence hums as he slips the brown little owl a cracker, half hidden by the gauze curtains.

Mercy Lewis, he hates retirement. Apparently, it was time for some new blood in Magical Law Enforcement, or so that snot nosed brat posing as President of MACUSA had implied.

Truth be told, he was expecting to be pushed out for a while now, but the previous Presidents were too scared of him to come out and say it to his face.

He’s determined to ignore that he once was that exact same snot nosed brat rising to Director of Security at thirty years of age and that the current President is on the wrong side of forty.

Still doesn’t make it sting any less.

“Could be a good opportunity to organize your papers.” Credence suggests lightly.

“What do you mean?” Percival knows exactly what he means. He has his home office and a guest bedroom stacked to the ceiling with old paperwork and sixty years’ worth of obsessive note taking. Credence has been giving him less and less subtle hints for a while now. In his defense, he has tried, more than once, but it feels too much like death.

Credence just gives him That look, the one he gives when Percival is being unreasonable.

Which he’s not.

He proves it, two hours later, surrounded by boxes stuffed with yellowed paper. He’s feeling his age when somehow his hand touches a glossy texture. He pulls it out, almost putting it aside until he really looks at it. He doesn’t know how it got messed up with the files from 1934 but he doesn’t really care at the moment.

They had gone up to Boston for his sister’s second (or was it third?) wedding. Credence never noticed him taking the picture. He had a terrible habit of closing in on himself at the sight of a camera, but Percival had managed to catch him unawares as the snowflakes fell around him. He carried it with him during the war, to Germany and back.

He lays it gently on the desk and walks back into the living room.

“Are you done sulking?” Credence asks calmly, not bothering to turn around. He opens the latch to the bird cage and holds out a hand. The yellow canary dutifully jumps out, its talons holding onto Credence’s finger.   

Credence is still a marvel.

The world turns, times change, but Credence, long fingered and dark eyed is still Credence. He could forgive the Universe a great deal, but not the absence of him.

He’s as lovely now as he was in ’29, surrounded by snowflakes, and all the years since.

“Percival?” He finally turns at his long silence, seeing him leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets.

Credence likes to keep the radio on, a steady sound in the background. He’s not overly fond of these new musicians, but Credence loves every new thing, every song, every film, every silly new invention. He even likes the hippies, for some reason that escapes Percival completely.

He walked into the kitchen a few weeks ago to see Credence listening attentively to a long haired neighborhood boy, stopped, turned on his heel and went back into the living room.

But it’s a slow song and they haven’t danced in so long.

The most memorable one had been back in ‘44, in the empty ballroom of an abandoned manor. He was in Northern France,  _again_ , in a war,  _again_. But Credence was there too, after months in England, along with a scratchy, old Maurice Chevalier record. That night had ended on that same ballroom, both silently agreeing to forget that they were far too old to make love on hardwood floor.

 _“I wake up in the morning and I wonder._ _  
Why everything is the same as it was.”_

Percival holds out a hand and Credence raises an eyebrow. There’s a sound of frantically beating wings and the canary flies across the room to settle on the coffee table.

Credence looks like he’s trying and failing to hide a smile as he takes the short steps to close the distance between them. He does love those long fingers of his, he thinks as Credence grabs his hand.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, but Percival just shakes his head and lays a hand on his waist.

“Nothing.” He replies as he begins to sway. Credence catches on quickly and grips at his hand tightly, the other reaching up for his shoulder.

He waited ten years for Credence to come to his senses and leave him. And then the war came, their ways parted, and letters started to arrive.

_I think of you every waking moment, of your hands, of your skin, of your mouth. I dream sometimes that if I wish it hard enough I can conjure the parts of you to keep me company in the night._

He hoarded those letters jealously like an old goblin, all the words Credence couldn’t say to the empty space between them put on paper. They had never been so long away from each other.

On the radio, Julie London gives way to Toña la Negra.

 _“Era un no me olvides convertido en flor_ _  
era un día nublado, era un día sin sol”_

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a cranky old man lately.” He whispers in the shell of Credence’s ear.

“It’s ok.” Credence’s cheek is warm where it presses against his. “You’re my cranky old man.”

“You’re no spring chicken yourself.” He whispers back and cherishes the ungainly snort that follows, feet shuffling to the rhythm.

He’ll never tell Credence he allowed himself to be pushed out, had agonized over his decision before accepting the retirement, he, who had clawed his way back to the top after Grindelwald had ripped his career to shreds. If he’d stuck to his guns, he knows the only way MACUSA would have gotten him out of his office was in a body bag.

But he has no stomach for another war and seeing him drag himself to MACUSA and back made Credence sad. In the end it wasn’t much of a decision at all.

Since the beginning, Percival truly has tried to make him happy. He hasn’t always succeeded but he has done his best. He makes his peace with his failures as he feels a pair of lips on his cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> The songs are Julie London's The End of the World and Toña la Negra's Azul.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @braganzas if anybody wants to yell at me


End file.
